Or Else
by RandomRyu
Summary: Sherlock is kidnapped by Moriarty. If he doesn't do whatever the man wants, John Watson, the man so dear to him, will die on the spot. Sheriarty, rated M for later chapters. I'm terrible at summaries.
1. Chapter 1

This is my first time writing for this ship, so excuse me if they are out of character a bit. Anyway, enjoy!

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Sherlock woke up slowly, blinking slowly at first; letting out a breath that he felt like he was holding. His eyes had a hard time adjusting to the surroundings, only seeing blotches of grey and black- where was he? He couldn't register anything in this state, and he could swear he heard a muffled voice talking. After a good minute or so, he could see, though still disoriented. He tried to move his arms and hands- no use, he was tied to a chair by what felt like rope chafing his pale skin. He hissed as he tried to move his hand and was only greeted by the burn of rough rope grinding against his skin. He looked around, finally observing his surroundings. Grey walls, concrete. One, two, three, at least four monitors resting on a table on the other side of the room. No windows, nothing else except a door- and a chair.

Someone was in the chair, who when they locked eyes grinned wide; his smile seeming to light up. He looked like the Cheshire cat, though you couldn't see his teeth. Sherlock wouldn't be surprised of the man had sharp teeth under those thin lips of his.

James Moriarty.

"Oh, you're awake. I thought you would never wake up for a while, my dear," He pouted on the ending of the statement, speaking like a disappointed child that was persuading their mother to get what they wanted. His voice went back to its regular, chilling tone," But I'm glad you came to."

"Moriarty," Sherlock grumbled, still feeling dizzy from being drugged- and possibly hit in the back of the head, because he could feel something wet on his neck- possibly drying blood- and his head was absolutely throbbing in pain.

"Call me Jim, sweetheart," He stood up from his chair and strode over to Sherlock's, the detective flinching as the criminal mastermind leaned down to look him straight in the eye, as if he was observing his emotions. "Or better yet, Daddy. Come on," Sherlock turned his head away, tired of looking at the man that disgusted him, yet was exactly like him in a way- only for Jim to grab his chin and turn it back into place. "Come on, sweetie. I know you can do it. Just one little word. Daddy."

Sherlock wasn't going to take part in this sick bastard's fantasies, shutting his mouth and pressing it into a thin line. He didn't respond.

"Oh, giving me the silent treatment are we?" Jim fake-pouted again, raising an eyebrow. "If you're not going to listen to me, I know you will after this." He released Sherlock's chin, the detective turning away from the hand as it pulled back; Jim pulling out a remote from his pocket and turning on monitor one.

John. It was John, sitting in their flat as usual, reading a newspaper on the couch. He probably thought that the taller man was out, solving a case and was going to be back later. It was only the middle of the day, judging by the dull light shining into their flat. A red dot was focused on his forehead, which the dirty blonde was unaware of totally, going on reading his paper casually.

"Look at him, isn't he cute?" Jim cooed," It would be a shame if- BAM!-" The yell had caught Sherlock off guard, and he flinched. Nothing had changed on the screen, the red dot still fixed on the doctor. "-someone pulled the trigger. Now won't you listen to me, Sherlock? Or your little pet is gone for good." His voice had lowered, dropping to an intimidating tone as he slipped the remote back into his pocket. There was a silence, and Jim was contemplating on telling the sniper to pull the trigger and kill John Watson, the man so dear to Sherlock Holmes.

"...Daddy," Sherlock spoke loud and clear, staring at the ground as he said this. Moriarty couldn't do this, no, not to John. Without John, he didn't know what he would do. John is an actual friend, and he meant quite a lot to the man. And just by uttering this word and following out any more of the sick man's orders, he would be safe. Jim grinned.

"Good boy."

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I'll actually try and work on this story regularly! Since I seem to drop stories so fast. There is a bunch of fanfics where Sherlock is capture by Moriarty, but I just couldn't help myself. Anyway, chapter 2 will be up soon! This was short, I know. But I promise the next one will be longer.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock hated Jim. He hated him more than anything in the world. If he wasn't tied up at this very moment, he would have punched the man square across the jaw and sent him flying across the room. He squirmed again in an attempt to get free of the bonds holding him still yet again, but to no avail. He was still held in place, like super glue was keeping him to the chair. He could feel the rope chafing his skin by now, sure that the skin underneath was irritated and red; possibly bleeding at this point. Letting out a small sigh, he hung his head and went limp. It was no use. He just had to listen to the other man. But it didn't mean that he was going to be stubborn, as usual. He was Sherlock. He didn't play along easily like a dog on a leash—the day that someone could get him to do that, he would question if he was the actual overly intelligent, sociopathic, observant Sherlock Holmes.

And even though his head was hung and it seemed as if he was staring at the ground, he was looking upwards and deducing every small thing about the man that stood in front of him.

"Tired, sweetheart? " Jim's voice held that sickly sweet, mock loveable tone that it sometimes dripped with, and it made Sherlock sick. He hated the pet names. Sherly. Sweet heart. Sweetie.

Sherlock's lips a thin line as he glanced off to the side.

"Really, Sherly? Pulling the silent treatment again in less than—" Jim checked his expensive looking watch, using his other hand to push up his sleeve,"—Ten minutes. Can't have you acting like this. You were being such a good boy! Now answer daddy's questions. Tired?"

"No." Sherlock answered sternly.

"Thinking? Observing? I can see those beautiful eyes of yours staring up at me, like what you see?" Sherlock could hear the smirk in the man's voice, it was obvious that he was. Jim didn't smile—he held a grimace, a smirk—he sometimes mimicked the Cheshire cat if one was looking him straight in the eye as he held that certain expression.

Sherlock's eyes flicked up to meet Jim's gaze. Jim's hands were held out, until he pulled them back and slipped them into his pockets again; running his thumb over the rubber buttons of the remote to the television (which still showed John casually going on with everyday life). Jim could practically see the gear working in Sherlock's head, deducing him and observing him from head to toe. Sherlock's expression dropped slightly, like he had realized something. It seemed like he didn't enjoy part of the observation he was making.

"Something wrong, sweetie?" God, another nickname. Sherlock felt sick to his stomach. "Something bothering that crowded mind of yours?" Jim took a step forward and let his hand run through Sherlock's still growing brunette hair, the curly locks gliding gently through his fingers; soft and silky. Sherlock tensed slightly at the loving touch and tried to jerk his head away from Jim's hand, though it was no use; his hair was just pulled.

"Let go of my hair. Don't touch me," Sherlock hissed. Jim could hear the anger seething from the man's low voice. Oh, how he loved that voice. He loved to listen to it as Shelrock mumbled to himself as he observed certain objects and people; how he let out an aggravated grunt when he was irritated (haven gotten something wrong or missed a certain, plain fact).

"Ah, ah, ah," Jim waved his pointer finger on his free hand from side to side, holding it up near Sherlock's face, right in his line of sight," Watch yourself. With one small demand I could get your little pet killed, and he would drop dead with one shot right to his cute head!" His tone was eerily cheery as he spoke the last statement through teeth; smiling quite widely. His ear to ear smile dropped back to the subtle smirk. Sherlock took a deep breath. Jim saw his chest rise and fall steadily—the man was trying to maintain his breathing normally. Just the thought of being alone again in apartment 221B made him uneasy. If John was erased from his life in an instant, so many things would change. He couldn't even begin to list the changes as Jim spoke up again.

"Apologize," Jim tugged on Sherlock's hair slightly again, eliciting another almost silent hiss from the detective.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock muttered quickly, trying to calm himself down and make his voice sound normal once again, though he spoke through slightly clenched teeth.

"There we go. Good boy, good boy," Jim let out a small chuckle, the hand tangled in Sherlock's hair going down to rest on his cheek; his thumb ghosting over Sherlock's lips. This made the detective tense up—he knew something like this was going to happen. He had observed Jim before when he had gotten the chance (cheeks flushed visibly, eyes glazed over, pupils dilated and dark in the middle of his brown eyes, and the visible bulge starting to show in his lower area). Jim's thumb traced around Sherlock's lips; Sherlock refraining from pressing them into a thin line like he usually did when he was under stress or lashing out and biting the man. He knew that it would do no good for him, or John, for that matter. He would just get scolded and told to apologize again; also gaining another threat to murder his flat mate.

Sherlock tensed up when he felt Jim's other hand rest on his thigh and run his index finger along the inside of the area, and he cursed mentally when he couldn't hold back a gasp that escaped him. He felt blood rush to his face and stain his pale features pink as he took his bottom lip into his teeth to suppress and other sounds that may escape during this. Sherlock had screwed his eyes shut when he had let out the gasp, but he knew that Jim's smirk only gotten wider. He could hear the man panting above him.

The thumb ghosting over his lips went away—only to feel the tips of Jim's fingers against his neck; drawing in another breath as not to let out another noise. He felt a churning in his stomach, he felt like he was going to be sick. _Don't fucking touch me, _Sherlock thought to himself as he turned his head to the side—bad move. This only gave Jim more room; leaning down to place a kiss on the pale skin of his neck and dart his tongue out of his mouth to tease the area. As he felt the other's mouth move along the skin, sucking and licking, the hand on his thigh tracing higher and higher until he palmed the detective through his pants. Sherlock mentally cursed to himself as a ripple of pleasure made its way up his nerves, not used to the feeling; letting out a low moan that was muffled by the biting of his bottom lip.

"Oh, do you like that, Sherly?" Jim repeated the action, palming the other's cock through his pants even harder this time; massaging. Sherlock was shivering now, Jim could feel it. His chest rose and fell quickly as he held back lewd noises from escaping him again. No answer on his part. But Jim needed no answer, Sherlock's reaction told him everything. It made Jim wonder if he ever did anything like this before, and he decided to be curious, figure out what was on his mind.

"Have you ever been touched like this before?" Jim's hand on Sherlock's face was now at the bottom of his shirt, working at the bottom button on his shirt and working up slowly. Every inch of skin exposed as he went up was caressed by the tips of his fingers; letting his fingernails graze the porcelain skin, though not hard enough to bleed—yet. "Has anyone else ever seen such a _beautiful _sight?" Sherlock didn't answer. He didn't speak. But he was biting on his lip hard enough to bruise, and if he didn't decrease pressure on it he would surely bleed.

Jim had unbuttoned Sherlock's dark purple dress shirt, though he had left it open since it was impossible to get it off through the ropes binding him. His hand trailed up Sherlock's torso, starting from the hem of his pants up to his chest; savoring every glance of the beautiful, flawless skin that was presented to him. His index finger circled one of the detective's sensitive nipples, letting his thumb press against the hard nub; only a moment later pinching it in between his thumb and index finger. Sherlock cried out, letting his bottom lip be freed from his teeth. It was red from the biting down, surely to be bruised, but no further than that. Jim repeated this action, working the hand palming Sherlock's cock as he did so. He got a pleasant surprise when the detective rolled his hips, asking for more of the sweet friction wordlessly.

"Mm, look at you. You want more, don't you? I can feel how hard you are, even through your clothes," To emphasize the fact, he gripped Sherlock's member through his pants and stroked a few times. He let out low whimpers and mumbled here and there incoherently, his thought process interrupted by the feelings overcoming him and seeming to swallow him whole. "I barely touched you, barely started. There's much, much more to come. But we have all the time in the world, Sherly," Sherlock swore that Jim looked like a hungry wolf as he smirked down at him, teeth slightly showing. He was a wolf, starved of food for days, and Sherlock was a nice fresh meal of rabbit under him; helpless. And Sherlock was.

Bound, he had no choice to what was being done to him. Struggling caused pain, he could feel wetness around his wrists; the rope cutting into him. Thank god for socks, or the skin around his ankles would be chafed and bleeding also. _At least I can see what's happening, _he thought on the bright side of this whole situation. He imagined what it would be like if he had no idea how to see, not knowing what the sick fuck's next move would be on the rarely unsuspecting detective. He could pull out a knife, slit his throat—or he could run his fingers down his neck, caress him in ways he hadn't been before. But again, a part of him was grateful for seeing. A part of him loved the look of the other's hands roaming his skin, making him shiver and shake not in anxiousness but in _want _and _need_.

Sherlock whined when hands were pulled back from him, and he squirmed in his chair again; though he stopped short and winced because he had forgotten of the chafing and bleeding.

"Look at you, desperate for my touch even though it has just been moments. Oh, this is going to be quite a fun time, quite a fun time indeed!" Jim giggled as he spun around and walked to the other side of the room out of Sherlock's view, making the curly-haired man as high on alert as he could and listening carefully to what he was doing. There was footsteps, hand connecting with metal, metal clinging on wood, and a chuckle. It was all so quiet, but Sherlock listened closer than anyone else could; blocking everything out of his mind for those short few seconds.

"Here's the deal, Sherly. I'm going to cut you out of these ropes, but on one condition," Jim was leaning up against the back of Sherlock's chair , twiddling the knife in his hand and playfully running the tip along Sherlock's shoulder, barely making a scratch; bringing up small strings in the dark purple fabric. Sherlock's bottom lip went right back into position in between his teeth, this time drawing a bit of blood; the copper tang spilling over his tongue. He listened intently. "You're going to get on your knees, and beg. Beg to suck my cock. Tell me how much you want it, how bad you fucking _need_ it, like a little wanton slut." Another chuckle pierced the air. "How does that sound to you, Holmes?" He used his last name this time, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock took a deep breath, a mixture of emotions running through him. He was aroused, that was for sure. But he was feeling dirty, sick, and somewhat terrified at the same time. His gaze drifted to the monitor, where John was now curled up on the couch and sleeping like a rock, cute as a hedgehog curled into a little prickly ball. He didn't want to humiliate himself, no. He's done that enough so far with his reactions to the stimulus he was receiving. But he didn't want to lost John, and he knew that Jim would snap his fingers in the blink of an eye if he disobeyed or resisted, so he took a deep breath and nodded.

"Deal."


End file.
